


Reaching Out

by alocalband



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alocalband/pseuds/alocalband
Summary: Stiles knows the difference between hallucination and reality. He’s got it down to a science now, every trick in the book memorized, because if he didn’t he’d go insane. Again.So he knows, heknows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Derek Hale is not actually in his bedroom with him right now.But he doesn’t care.





	Reaching Out

**Author's Note:**

> My first of two pieces I wrote for the [Sterek Charity Zine](https://sterekzine.tumblr.com/), which was such an honor to contribute to. There are a lot of really talented folks with fic and art that went into this book, and I'm so happy that I got the opportunity to be among them.

Stiles knows the difference between hallucination and reality. He’s got it down to a science now, every trick in the book memorized, because if he didn’t he’d go insane. Again.

So he knows, he _knows_ , beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Derek Hale is not actually in his bedroom with him right now.

But he doesn’t care.

“That isn’t like you,” Derek says seriously from where he sits on the edge of Stiles’ bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together beneath his bearded chin. He looks solid and real and like the personification of a sigh of relief that Stiles has been holding in for far too long.

Stiles shrugs a shoulder and continues idly spinning back and forth in his desk chair. He can’t look at Derek for too long at a time, or he’ll feel that familiar pull to get closer, to fall into him and seek some kind of physical comfort that he’s not going to get, and only half because Derek’s not actually there.

Because, obviously, even the fantasy of Derek wouldn’t reciprocate that kind of affection. And the reality of him certainly wouldn’t.

“What are you, my therapist now? Sometimes fantasies can be healthy.”

“You’re using an imaginary friend as a coping mechanism. Yeah, that sounds really healthy there, Stiles.”

“And you think calling the _actual_ you would be better?” Stiles snorts a derisive laugh and picks up a baseball off his mess of a desk to start tossing up in the air. It used to be that if he didn’t give his hands something to do, all that would happen is the rest of his body would start fidgeting as well. Now, he worries that his hands will just find something to do on their own and he really won’t like whatever it is.

It’s been months, but the memory of the Nogitsune still has a pretty tight hold on him, no matter what he tells his dad and Scott.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Derek offers idly.

“Yeah. It could,” Stiles mutters back.

Derek doesn’t ever stop trying to get Stiles to talk to someone who really exists, though, which probably means that on some level Stiles knows he should. But Derek doesn’t stop appearing to him either, a steady, comforting presence whenever Stiles has a moment alone and needs to not feel so... _alone_.

He doesn’t necessarily want to talk about it, but just having someone there who he knows he _could_ talk to is infinitely reassuring. Sustaining, even. Possibly vital.

“Wouldn’t think you’d find comfort in an hallucination, after everything that’s happened,” Derek says one night, sitting on the floor, his back against the side of the bed where Stiles is lying, failing at getting any sleep.

Stiles shrugs. “I know you aren’t really here. And as long as I know...”

“It’s the not knowing.”

Stiles nods. “It’s the not knowing.”

There’s quiet for a time, then a rustling as Derek leans forward to remove his jacket and toss it over onto the desk chair.

“I always liked that jacket,” Stiles tells him, staring at it in the dark.

“Explains why I’m always wearing it.”

“You like it too, don’t lie.”

“The real me? Yeah, I suppose he does. Been awhile since he wore it, though.”

“I think it finally died a few months back. One un-patchable stab wound too many.”

“It’s what they don’t tell you about impalings. They really put a dent in your wardrobe.”

Sometimes Stiles forgets himself, though. Sometimes he reaches a hand out for Derek, and only barely catches himself before making contact.

Derek merely raises an eyebrow at him from the passenger seat of the parked Jeep, Stiles’ hand still hovering in the air midway between them. Stiles clears his throat and course-corrects, trying to make it look like he was going for the gearshift the entire time.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Smooth.”

“Shut up.”

“Considering I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want me to be, you’re very... careful with yourself when I’m around. More so than you would be if it were the actual me.”

“ _More_ so? That can’t be right.”

“You know I’m not real, but you don’t like having proof of it.”

“That’s not--”

“I think you wish I were. I think, if I were _really_ here? You’d actually talk to me.”

Stiles frowns and glares at his steering wheel for a long time. Finally he starts the car and aggressively shifts gears to pull out of the parking lot. “You want me to talk so bad? Fine. I’ll talk.”

And he does.

It’s stilted at first. And somehow incredibly awkward, despite the fact that Stiles is just talking to _himself_. But he talks, and Derek listens, and slowly, day by day, week by week, Stiles starts to feel like himself again.

“You look good, man,” Scott tells him, with the kind of small, relieved smile on his face that means he’s been worried but didn’t want to say anything.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair and readjusts his backpack strap on his shoulder. “I look the same as I always have, buddy.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, smile growing. “Exactly.” He throws an arm around Stiles and pulls him in tight as they enter the Beacon Hills High School hallways for their last semester.

Derek doesn’t stop appearing, though. Stiles gets the feeling that he would if Stiles _wanted_ him to, which becomes more and more apparent the more that Stiles doesn’t necessarily _need_ him there anymore.

He needed Derek before. Now he just... He just wants.

It catches him off guard to admit it to himself, even if he probably should have seen it coming for a while now.

Especially when Derek finally asks the obvious question, one night when Stiles is as close to sleep as he’s ever been at such a reasonable hour. The lights are out, he’s blinking tiredly in bed while staring at Derek’s profile, backlit by the moon where he stands by the window.

“Why me?” Derek asks, not turning to look at him. He’s wearing the same tight jeans he always is, the same jacket that probably got tossed away in reality ages ago, the same faded Henley that always looks so soft Stiles can hardly stand to look at it without being tempted to touch, to reach out...

Stiles swallows thickly, his tongue feeling like lead in his mouth. “I don’t know,” he whispers. Having this conversation at any volume other than a whisper would be asking too much. Hell, just having this conversation silently inside his own head would be as well, but apparently his head is insisting he have it anyway.

“Lying to werewolves is never a smart move.”

“I’m not lying to werewolves, I’m lying to myself.”

“But you are lying.”

“I’m... figuring things out.”

Derek turns to face Stiles, leaning his shoulder against the window frame, arms still crossed over his broad chest, and asks again, “Why me, Stiles?”

Stiles closes his eyes. The memory of the last time he saw the real Derek Hale immediately starts playing again, like a song he can’t get out of his head. Derek’s tiny smile, barely there but like a punch in the gut. How close Stiles was to closing the distance between them out of sheer desperation. The shadow across Derek’s eyes that said he wanted the same, but wouldn’t ever let himself.

“You’re safe,” Stiles finally admits. “You make me feel safe. And... known.”

“Call him,” Derek says firmly.

When Stiles opens his eyes, Derek’s not there anymore.

It takes a couple more weeks for Stiles to work up the nerve to even consider it. And along the way he grows more and more on edge, jittery and frenetic to the point that his dad hides the coffee maker and Scott starts giving him poorly concealed worried looks again.

Stiles’ thumb hovers over Derek’s contact info on his phone every night, but it seems like too large a gap to bridge after all this time. What would he even say? Derek left this town months ago, the moment the nogitsune was defeated, and hasn’t bothered to keep in touch with any of them since.

Not that Stiles blames him. If and when he ever manages to escape this hellhole, he’ll probably cut as many ties with it as possible just so that he never accidentally gets sucked back into its misery and drama. And Derek has a hundred times the number of reasons that Stiles does to do exactly that.

So, he doesn’t call. And he doesn’t mourn the loss of the imaginary version of a certain alpha werewolf that won’t appear to him anymore, because that would just be sad.

He finishes the school year and graduates second in his class. He makes plans for a college as far away from all this shit as possible.

The night before he’s set to leave, his bags packed and his Jeep’s tank full, ready to head out come first light, Stiles lets the insomnia get to him for the first time in a long while.

The nightmares never went away, but he’s been better lately about not letting them keep him awake. Tonight, however, it isn’t the nightmares. It’s the fact that Derek’s been sitting in Stiles’ desk chair watching him since the moment Stiles turned over in bed to blink blearily in that direction.

He thought he was over this. But maybe his subconscious was tired of waiting for him to man up and find out if the real thing was at all possible.

“Just couldn’t stay away, huh?” he jokes tiredly.

Derek’s expression is reserved, wary, but soft around the edges. He’s not wearing the jacket. “Was passing through and heard you were leaving tomorrow.”

“That I am, big guy. Wanna come with? Not that you’ve got a choice, I guess.”

“Oh?”

“I mean. Seeing as you’re...” Stiles waves a hand vaguely at his own head.

“Right,” Derek nods, but his eyebrows furrow inward in confusion, speaking a silent language that Stiles somehow learned to translate what feels like a lifetime ago.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Hold on.” He sits up in bed, his heart rate accelerating, his breaths coming increasingly fast and shallow. “You’re not wearing your jacket.”

Derek frowns, bemused. “I left it in the car.”

“Holy shit, you’re here.”

Derek nods again, slow and lost. “Like I said, just passing through. I heard you were on your way out. I thought...”

“You thought?”

Derek shrugs a shoulder, pseudo-casually, but Stiles can see right through him. “Haven’t managed to settle anywhere yet. I thought you might want some company.”

It’s been a very long time since a smile this genuine and unexpected has graced Stiles’ features. He tries to temper it, but knows he doesn’t succeed in the slightest. “Company could be... nice.”

“’Nice?’” Derek raises an eyebrow at him.

“Interesting.”

“Ill-conceived, more like. But. Here I am anyway.”

“Here you are.” And wow, Stiles really can’t stop smiling. That’s new.

But it’s okay because Derek is smiling now too, small and private, as he stands up from the desk chair. His jeans aren’t as tight as Stiles always imagines them. They look more comfortable, and Stiles thinks he might like that better.

Derek approaches the bed, places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and squeezes once. “You look like you’re doing better.”

“So do you.” And it’s true, he realizes. Not being on the run for his life has done wonders for Derek. There’s actually a spark in his eyes now that looks suspiciously like _hope_.

Derek ducks his head a little. It’s kind of adorable, and not something Stiles ever thought he’d get to see. “Thanks. It’s been... a lot of work.” He catches Stiles’ gaze and holds it for way longer than Stiles knows how to justify. Stiles licks his lips, and Derek swallows and shakes his head. He takes a step back. “So. Leave in the morning? I’ll follow you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Derek turns to leave. Stiles hesitates for only long enough to realize that he is a massive idiot, before nearly face planting in his hurry to scramble up out of bed and after the guy.

“Wait, wait. _Derek_.”

Derek turns back around just as Stiles reaches him. They’re nearly the same height, but Stiles always forgets that until they’re standing inches away from each other.

He wants to stand even closer.

He _wants_...

“I missed you,” he says. It feels like a bigger admission than the words all by themselves should be. It feels like he’s saying exactly what he’s been struggling to come to terms with for so long on his own. Derek makes him feel safe. Known. And Stiles has _missed him_ so much he didn’t have the words to describe it. Like losing a god damned limb.

Derek stares at him, his usually guarded features going soft and pliant with a vulnerability Stiles hasn’t seen since the word “abomination” passed Stiles’ lips while standing in a soaked tracksuit outside the high school swimming pool.

“I missed you, too, Stiles,” he responds at last, low and hoarse, and like he’s admitting something a whole lot bigger as well. Like those three little words could so easily be swapped for three other little words.

Stiles doesn’t know who moves first. Only that there’s a kiss between them, quick and gentle, that transitions quietly into a strong and steady embrace, arms wrapped securely around each other. It’s solid and _real_ and Stiles is no longer afraid to reach out to confirm that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! You can also find me over on [Tumblr](http://alocalband.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/alocalband) :)


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